


No Different, No Worse

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because John is a Terrible Liar, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, It's Just a Way to Hide Your Face, John's socks, M/M, Never Trust a Hug, Sherlock Smoking, The plan will work, These Are Prepared Words, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8257309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: “You hand me disaster after disaster and I just keep accepting them.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Neverwhere on tumblr: "What happened doesn't change anything."

“You hand me disaster after disaster and I just keep accepting them.” John shakes his head, arms crossed tight across his chest, even his ankles crossed, as far away from Sherlock as he can get, far side of the kitchen table while Sherlock is stood by the window on the Baker Street side, smoking.

“Am I supposed to apologise?” Mildly, no fight in it. Sherlock doesn’t want to fight with John. He really just wants to know if that’s what John wants.

“I know you never would,” John replies, equally undemanding. “I’m just angry with myself for letting things get so…”

Sherlock drags deeply, holds the smoke in his lungs, lets his eyes fall half-closed. He forgets to aim his exhalation at the cracked-open window. He raises his eyebrows, prompting:  _‘so’?_

“Complicated.”

“You love complicated,” Sherlock says dismissively, grinning, and stubs out the butt end of the cigarette in the green glass ashtray on the desk. He nudges it aside and perches beside it on the desktop. His bare feet rest on the seat of the chair, and he rolls it away, pulls it back in.

“I really don’t.”

Sherlock thinks, _Keep telling yourself that_. He says, “It’s a sound plan. It will work.” He shuts the window; the cold bite of early-December wind bothers him now that he’s finished smoking.

“But in the meantime…” John scrubs both hands up across his face, ruffles his hair the wrong way, grips the back of his neck and exhales hard. “You know. What happened…”

What happened was that they sat in their chairs, reading, not talking, completely at ease, like it used to be. What happened was that John hummed about something in the newspaper–wistful: _oh, that’s a shame_ –and shook his head. What happened was that Sherlock slid his bare feet across the space between them and tucked his toes beneath the cuffs of John’s trousers, stroked his ankles, nudged his socks out of the way, the way he used to do, _before_. What happened was that John said his name like an exasperated scold: “Sherlock…” _Don’t do this to me, please don’t do this_. What happened was that John looked at him with those bright blue eyes and Sherlock dipped his chin, the ghost of a nod, then got up and went to the bedroom and left the door open.

“…it doesn’t _change_ anything.” John frowns with his whole body, distress from tousled head to sock-clad, jittering foot.

Sherlock turns his palms up. “Doesn’t make it any worse.”

John laughs humourlessly. “So I’m married to a woman who tried to kill you–did I mention she’s pregnant?–and the plan is for me to pretend I believe all the utter shit she tried to feed me. At Christmas! With your parents!”

“Mycroft will be there, too,” Sherlock offers, can’t help but twist one corner of his mouth upward; John can’t see the beauty of the plan, the simplicity, the certainty that it will work, _of course it will work_ , because he’s forgotten who he is–who they are together–and he focuses on all the wrong things: a bullet wound. A liar who never loved him. A baby that’s not even his. Christmas.

“So–” John says, and slides forward in a slump, palms of his hands across the table, which is clear for once, they even ate their tea there earlier. He folds one hand into a fist, wraps the other around it. “So now there’s this woman–this _assassin_ –and this plan…and… also… _this_?” He motions at the two of them. “This, too?”

Sherlock crosses the flat in a few long strides, takes John by the wrist and tugs him to standing. Sherlock claims his right to John’s space; when he inhales, his belly almost touches John’s.

“Always,” he says, and shrugs it off. John knows this, of course he knows, he’s always known. They both have. “Always, this.”


End file.
